


i read you for some kind of poem

by magictodestroy



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bag End, Cooking, Hidden Relationship, M/M, Pre-Fellowship, Sad Romance, The Shire, it's very gay, mushroom soup
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-07
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-15 03:48:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13604892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magictodestroy/pseuds/magictodestroy
Summary: Sam finishes the poem as Frodo watches the space beyond him. He doesn’t want to stare at Sam, or he’ll really cry. He breathes in and out and does arithmetic in his head.‘That was beautiful, Sam,’ he says, when Sam has finished.Sam stands on the rug, blushing and nodding and uncertain. He fumbles with the pages.‘Perhaps something else?’ Sam says.‘Perhaps a love story,’ Frodo says, and wind rattles the chimney.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gaolcrowofmandos (imperialhuxness)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperialhuxness/gifts).



The evening light turns blue in Bag End. Frodo slices mushrooms. His knife slips easily through them and leaves slight cuts on the criss crossed surface of the wooden cutting board. He turns the board and cuts them the other way.

‘Like that?’ he asks Sam.

Sam turns to him. He is tied into his apron. He pushes back at his dark brown hair, surveys Frodo’s work.

‘Just like that,’ he says. Sam stirs the onions and butter in the bottom of the pot; the onions are turning translucent. Sam adds salt, shallots, and parsley. ‘Now the mushrooms,’ Sam says.

Frodo lifts the cutting board and tips the mushrooms into the pot. Sam nods and drops the minced garlic in with them. He cooks them, stirring carefully. The yellow mushrooms wilt slowly. They gleam golden.

Frodo leans against the counter, arms folded. September is slipping away, and last night they had frost.

Sam watches the pot, and Frodo watches Sam. The minutes tick by slowly, counted by the mantle clock. Five minutes and Sam adds flour to the pot. He cooks it down and then pours in the stock.

‘It’s coming along now,’ Sam says. ‘Now we leave it to simmer.’

‘All right then,’ Frodo says. He sticks his hands deep in his trouser pockets.

‘It’s simple,’ Sam says. ‘It’s good.’

Frodo nods. He sits on the sofa and stares at the empty hearth. Sam waits by the hearth and keeps an eye on the pot in the kitchen. He goes back to stir it again.

‘Do you want to read?’ Frodo says.

Sam comes fully into the room and looks at the books lined up on the bookcase. He pulls out a small leather book, brown with small gold lettering.

‘I’ll read something to you?’

‘Please.’

Sam opens the book. He stands awkwardly, legs placed apart, book open with one hand. He runs his other hand through his tight, messy curls. The candle light shines off his brown skin and illuminates his dark brown eyes. He reads a poem, turns the thin pages with calloused brown fingers, dirt beneath the nails.

Frodo chokes on a sob.

Sam stops, startled. ‘Mr. Frodo?’

Frodo waves a hand. ‘I’m fine. Some dust.’ He wipes away the tears in his eyes. ‘It’s just dust.’

Sam watches him. ‘All right then, Mr. Frodo.’

Sam finishes the poem as Frodo watches the space beyond him. He doesn’t want to stare at Sam, or he’ll really cry. He breathes in and out and does arithmetic in his head.

‘That was beautiful, Sam,’ he says, when Sam has finished.

Sam stands on the rug, blushing and nodding and uncertain. He fumbles with the pages.

‘Perhaps something else?’ Sam says.

‘Perhaps a love story,’ Frodo says, and wind rattles the chimney.

Sam nods. ‘I’ll just stir the soup.’ He sets the book down and bobs into the kitchen.

Frodo leans forward on the sofa and watches Sam stir the soup. Sam holds the spoon gently and lifts it to his lips to taste. He adds a pinch more salt.

Frodo follows him into the kitchen.

‘What do you want, Sam?’

Sam drops the spoon. ‘What do I want?’

‘I don’t know, Sam. I don’t know what I meant by it.’

Frodo touches Sam’s arm. It’s strong. The linen slips beneath his fingers.

Sam stares up at him, eyes huge and brown. He blinks rapidly, fumbles for words.

‘The soup needs a few more minutes,’ Sam says.

Frodo’s lips graze Sam’s cheek. He smells sweet like grass.

‘You’re a good cook, you know,’ Frodo says.

‘Yes, Mr. Frodo.’ Sam stares, breathless.

The clock ticks, and the soup bubbles, and the wind whispers at the window. The last light is leaving the sky, and the windows are becoming mirrors, showing Frodo’s parted lips and Sam’s trembling hand cast in the golden light of the kitchen.

‘Well then,’ Sam says finally. He lifts the spoon and stirs the soup. ‘It’s getting late.’ And he shuts the curtains.

Frodo covers Sam’s hand with his. Sam closes his eyes. They stand in the heaviness of the room, only inches apart.

‘Do you know I meant it?’ Frodo says.

Sam nods. He doesn’t open his eyes.

‘Frodo,’ he says, and his voice is thick.

Frodo’s lips brush Sam’s lips. Sam sets the spoon on the saucer and holds Frodo’s arm. They’re alone, but the lights are bright, and the curtains are thin.

Sam looks at the window. Frodo looks too.

‘Sometimes I’d give anything to be invisible,’ he says.

Sam touches his cheek.

‘Love isn’t a bad thing,’ Sam says.

‘Then why does it hurt so much?’ Frodo cries, and he shakes crying.

Sam holds him, and the soup boils, and the curtains are so thin.

 

* * *

 

 

October comes in the morning, muted and grey. Frodo wakes first, and Sam is still beside him. Frodo touches his hair.

‘I love you,’ he whispers, and the sound of it fills the room. It’s beautiful.

Sam’s beautiful.

Sam with his soft, thick lips and his dark, deep set eyes. He has a soft chin and warm, strong arms. He smiles when he sleeps, and his lashes flutter.

Frodo kisses Sam’s forehead and his temple. He kisses his mouth and his fingers, one after the other.

Sam wakes. He gazes at Frodo.

Sam is so warm in the coolness of the blue morning that Frodo cries again.

‘Don’t cry, Mr. Frodo,’ Sam whispers low. ‘There’s nothing to cry about. I’m here now.’

Frodo cries still, and the room melts around him; it’s shaky and glinting.

‘I’m happy,’ Frodo says. ‘But we can never be happy. People like us: we’re not allowed to be happy.’

Sam holds Frodo against his chest. He touches his hair.

‘That’s not true,’ Sam says. ‘That’s not true now.’

‘But it is true,’ Frodo says. ‘And no matter how much I love you, I can never love you enough to make it untrue.’

Sam licks his lips. He cannot answer.

It starts to rain.


	2. Chapter 2

The winter is thick and endlessly cold. It’s January and Frodo sits inside reading. Sam and Merry lie on the rug in front of the hearth playing checkers. A fire roars in the hearth. Outside it snows gently.

The checkers clack across the wooden board, and Merry laughs as he steals three pieces.

‘Assured victory!’ Merry calls, holding them up in triumph.

‘We’ll see,’ Sam says.

Merry laughs again, head titled to one side. The firelight flashes over his face and through his hair, lighting him red.

Frodo stretches his legs out and rests them on the small of Merry’s back, crossed at the ankles.

‘Ah! You horrible cousin!’ Merry exclaims. He pushes at Frodo’s legs.

‘I may be,’ Frodo says, ‘but you still love me.’

‘We’ll see about that,’ Merry says, and he laughs.

Sam laughs too and captures one of Merry’s pieces. He places it on the rug beside the board.

‘You distracted me,’ Merry says to Frodo.

‘I can’t help that you’re bad,’ Frodo answers.

The snow is piled high outside the door of Bag End. It fills the gardens and softens the hills. It forces the moonlight brighter. It hides the shape of everything and makes the world a promise. Snow is stuck to the windows – grey and white against the dark blue of the night.

‘When’s your dad expecting you back?’ Merry asks Sam.

Merry’s pack is flung in the corner of the room. He’s staying at least the week, maybe longer. He has a room ready for him.

‘Ah, he’s not,’ Sam says. ‘They don’t wait up for me.’

‘Oh you are so grown up,’ Merry says.

‘And you’re a baby,’ Frodo teases Merry. ‘And a damn good footrest.’ He wiggles his toes.

‘Will you stop!’ Merry rolls onto his side. He shoves at Frodo, getting his feet off him, and then grins at Sam again. ‘Does your dad know he’s corrupting you?’

‘Ah...’ Sam says.

‘I’ll corrupt all of you,’ Frodo says. ‘Elves and dragons and golden hoards!’

‘No!’ Merry cries. ‘Anything but golden hoards!’ He drags Frodo off his chair and wrestles him on the floor. They punch at each other lightly, and Frodo kicks the game board. The pieces shift and fall out of place.

‘Sorry!’ Frodo says.

‘It’s fine.’ Merry laughs. ‘We’ll just say I won.’ He gathers the pieces together and dumps them in the drawer beneath the board.

‘We’ll say you were going to lose,’ Frodo says. ‘And terribly so!’

‘Oh you’d like that.’ Merry stands and brushes off his trousers. He goes to the wash room. ‘I’ll be back!’ he calls over his shoulder.

‘Thanks for the warning,’ Frodo says.

‘He’s a lot,’ Sam says when Merry’s closed the door.

‘Mm,’ Frodo agrees. ‘He’s a lot like me, but I think I was worse. I don’t know how Bilbo put up with me.’

‘I’m sure you weren’t.’ Sam looks down at the empty board game. He traces his finger over the wood. ‘Does he know?’ He spreads his hand out across the board. ‘Does he know about us?’

‘No,’ Frodo says softly. ‘He’s my dearest friend, and I can’t bring myself to tell him.’

‘So no one knows.’

‘No one knows.’

The quiet is stronger now. Frodo doesn’t get up. He stays on the floor near his chair, running his thumb over the edge of his book. The page ends are staggered, and his thumb slips and catches on them.

Sam doesn’t move either. He keeps his head bent, his fingers curled around the edge of the board as if he’s about to lift it.

‘Will you ever tell him?’ Sam says finally.

Frodo can hear Merry washing his hands. ‘I don’t know. Maybe he’d understand. He’s my favourite cousin.’

Sam nods. ‘I should get home.’

‘You don’t have to,’ Frodo says quickly. ‘It’s really fine. You can stay and we’ll just talk, and you can play another game, and then I’ll play the winner, and...’

Sam stands. ‘Good night, Mr. Frodo.’

 

* * *

 

 

In the morning, Frodo makes pancakes and serves them with jam and syrup. Merry catches him up on family gossip over breakfast. He dumps globs of jam over his pancakes and smears them down with his fork.

Frodo listens, nodding along. The sun is bright white through the mist of the morning. It rises slowly over the sloping hills, through the narrow, naked trees.

‘Is there anything new with you?’ Merry asks.

‘I think I’ve fallen in love,’ Frodo murmurs, not looking away from the window.

‘Oh? Do tell.’

Frodo shakes his head. ‘No, it’s silly.’

‘Love’s always silly. Especially with you.’ Merry smiles. ‘Is it with a poem again? Or a particular patch of sunlight where you feel more alive than you’ve ever felt before?’ Merry clasps his hands over his heart. ‘The beauty of it all! The beauty!’

Frodo shakes his head. ‘A poem,’ he says. ‘The most beautiful poem ever written.’

‘Of course. It’s always a poem with you,’ Merry teases. ‘When are you going to fall in love for real? You’ll be taken then. You’ll be utterly destroyed, my dear romantic cousin.’

‘I don’t know,’ Frodo says. ‘I think I already am.’

‘With a poem?’

Frodo finally looks at Merry. Merry’s smiling, lips stained purple from the jam. His hair is a mess, since he never bothers to brush it in the morning. He’s wearing pyjamas, and the shirt’s cross buttoned and half undone. He slouches in his chair, feet up under the table on another chair. He’s perfectly content and satisfied, so alarmingly young.

Frodo dabs at the corner of Merry’s mouth with a napkin. He wonders if Merry’s ever truly been scared. He looks like he could live and die happy.

Frodo feels like a coward, but he doesn’t know what else to do.

‘Yes, with a poem,’ Frodo says. ‘With the only poem I’ll ever need.’

‘Of course. That’s just like you.’ Merry laughs. He pats Frodo’s hand. ‘Oh, Frodo, what are we going to do with you?’

**Author's Note:**

> Happy(?) birthday!


End file.
